


Greenhouse

by anthony_crowley, bookmarksorganization



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale has a Katherine Hepburn thing going on style-wise, Canon-Typical Drinking, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley moves flats, Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Bang, F/F, Female-Presenting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Female-Presenting Crowley (Good Omens), First Kiss, Food, Hands, Ineffable Wives, Light Angst, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), POV Crowley (Good Omens), Plants, Post-Episode: s01e06 The Very Last Day of the Rest of Their Lives, Sharing a Bed, Slice of Life, accompanying art in chapter 3, copious theatre and film and book references, fic can probably be read as a bit ace and/or aro, hand holding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 18:59:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29176038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anthony_crowley/pseuds/anthony_crowley, https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookmarksorganization/pseuds/bookmarksorganization
Summary: After saving the world—free for the first time in their existence—Aziraphale and Crowley continue on with their lives. Crowley moves flats. Aziraphale reads philosophy. They slowly settle into a soft, tentative sort of happiness.For the Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Bang with art by anthony_crowley (@agardeneeden) and writing by bookmarksorganization (@various-things)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9
Collections: Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Bang





	1. Chapter 1

Aziraphale’s hands were beautiful. Her grace—the strength she possessed—was cushioned by soft skin, her short fingers, the round shapes of her palms and the exquisitely manicured nails. She talked with them, always gesturing through the air. She did this one thing—sort of a _reassuring_ but also _stopping_ motion. Like the Principality she was. 

When they’d have dinner, or lunch, or whatever, Crowley observed Aziraphale in details: the cuff of her shirt beneath her jacket, the way her fingers wrapped around a fork. Crowley thought about the way she held a sword. The way she’d shoved Crowley into a wall in Rome that one time a few hundred years ago. The way she repaired books and touched bindings and the shifting, rubbery distance between them both. The way she watched things—best audience in the world.

They could do this whenever.

She turned her focus back to Aziraphale’s face. There had been silence for a few moments, so that called for a demonstration of interest. It was easy to multitask listening to the angel and her own itinerant, crawling thoughts. 10,000 hours of practice creates an expert.

Aziraphale was looking at her with expectation. “Do you have plans, after this?”

Crowley tilted her head back and stared up at the restaurant’s gilded ceiling. “I mean, I thought about what—” She stopped herself on the ‘ _we_ ,’ “...I’d do. If we made it.”

“Mm.”

“I didn’t get very far…” Have a long nap. Watch Golden Girls. Buy a new stereo. “...just… the usual stuff.” Take a walk. Contemplate redecorating. New wardrobe. Crowley shrugged. “You know. I don’t have anything scheduled.” She blinked, clear on the angel’s likely interest in asking, and let her attention drift back down to across the table. “Do you want to go somewhere and drink a lot of alcohol?”

Aziraphale smiled. “Yes.”

Earlier, from Berkeley Square, they’d walked to the Bentley and then driven the very short stretch to the Ritz. Now, as they exited out onto the street and the car was right there, parked and safe, Crowley resisted an urge to stand there and pet it. There’d be time for that later—long drives outside of the city, avoiding the M25. Still, as she gripped the handle and opened its door, she thought, _Hello again._

Lose everything and save the world and defeat the devil and get everything back and prevail over Heaven and Hell and be truly, really free for the first time in the whole of your existence.

It’d been a… a week.

The Bentley fit like a whole body glove; the drive to Soho was in a comfortable quiet. Aziraphale was definitely thinking about her bookshop. Crowley left the music off. As A.Z. Fell & Co. came into view through the windows, she felt the angel relax from feet away.

Aziraphale sighed. Her breathing evened out. They parked and exited the car. Crowley followed her.

In the shop, a few feet beyond the threshold, Aziraphale stood still. Her hands were relaxed and open down at her sides, but it was all its own kind of tension. Soldier. Retired? Hm. After minutes, she turned back to Crowley. Her expression contained too much to get a quick read of, but she was smiling a little. Good. She said, “It’s still… well there are some things—”

“—oh, yeah.” Crowley pushed off where she’d been leaning against the doorframe. “There—”

“—I imagine Adam made some change—”

“Yeah, there’s…” She pointed out the new children’s books. Aziraphale seemed pleased that Crowley knew things well enough to’ve noticed the additions. Then, she excused herself to check upstairs. Crowley could hear her walking around, surveying her domain. 

When she returned, she talked about inventory she’d do in the coming week and they made their way further into the shop. 

The first bottle from a case of Barolo was opened and they toasted again. 

It all felt surreal.

Crowley wondered briefly, with what she already recognized as the beginning of an unfortunate pattern, if they’d really made it. Maybe they hadn’t and this was all some sort of… but that’s not how it worked for their kind, was it. Probably.

Mercifully, Aziraphale had plenty to talk about. She’d recapped her ventures into angelic possession through their lunch, but that book by Agnes Nutter, _Mrs. Nutter_ , as Aziraphale said on her third glass, was going to be a topic of conversation for a really long time. Crowley asked questions, made jokes at the right moments. Things fell into their usual comfortable rhythm as hours passed.

It was dark out, and the world was soft and Crowley was warm and very drunk. They were both very drunk. They were still talking about the book. 

“I’m sorry you didn’t get to keep it,” Crowley said.

“Oh, don’t be. I read it cover to cover multiple times over while trying to find answers about the antichrist, Adam, the apocalypse, all of it.”

“She didn’t... talk about After? Well, she did. The choose-your-faces bit.”

“She did. I don’t know what other parts might’ve… if I’d thought to analyze…” Aziraphale trailed off. Her hair had fallen forward into her face. She didn’t make any movement to brush it back. She brightened. “Can’t focus on the past, ay?”

“We’re in a used bookshop. But, yes, the future. Forward.”

“All of it,” Aziraphale said softly.

“And not any Sound of Music.”

That got a coughed-out laugh.

Crowley wanted to ask her what she had planned. But that was a big question. Other than inventory. Too big. Scary. Aziraphale didn’t have plans. Crowley didn’t have to ask. _I mean,_ she thought. _Neither did I but that’s like. That’s my whole thing._

“I should see what’s coming up for the National Theatre.”

“ _Faith, Hope, and Charity_ ,” said Crowley. “New show. Seems very much up your alley.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. Her cheeks had the slightest flush. She was terribly, gorgeously beautiful. “Thank you.”

“I looked it up.”

“Part of your post-apocalypse ruminations.”

“Something to look forward to,” Crowley said, and decided she was too drunk.

Aziraphale was glowing, metaphorically, but in the space of heartbeats something small changed behind her eyes; her contentment flickered. She swallowed, tried to renew her smile.

Crowley launched herself into a subject change. First thing she could think of: their apparent shared history with Shadwell—who’d tried to talk pay with them both as they’d all made to part ways from the airfield. And stopped drinking.

It did the trick. Crowley didn’t give specifics (her planned holy water heist) on how she’d met him back in the ’60s. Not right now. One day. Huh. Yeah. Probably. Maybe. “What about you two?” 

“Oh, he was always around Soho. Seemed very dedicated, if misguided. Word got back to me. Some of… some of his recruiting efforts resulted in some talk in circles I passed through and I might have asked for clarifying details and approached him one day. You know, other than the young man, I never saw any other members of his army.”

“What?”

“He rented a flat above Tracy’s and it really did seem to be a… maybe two-man operation at best. I asked him about it and his answer wasn’t very clear.”

“Ahh.”

“I hope Tracy’s going to be well. Lovely woman.”

“She seemed like a charming sort.”

“She really was. Like I said earlier, it was an... awkward trip around the earth before we... connected.”

Crowley shifted around on the couch as she toed off her boots. They thunked onto the carpet. “You were amazing. I still can’t believe it.”

“Glad to surprise you.”

“Yoouuu did,” Crowley sighed. She tucked her legs in and leaned back. All the books behind the couch were still in the right order.

“Crowley.”

“Yeah?”

“What else is coming up that’s interesting?”

“Mm. Well, at the National there’s a more futuristic thing after _Faith, Hope, and Charity_. Hamilton’s finally coming to the West End. Basquiat at the Barbican. Do you know Basquiat? You’d like him. And there’s the Pre-Raphee..elite thing coming back to the... the, ah…” she trailed off. The angel hadn’t responded to any of that. Crowley turned to actually look at her. 

In the room’s soft light, Aziraphale’s eyes were very bright, and even more uncertain. She took a shaky breath, sniffed, blinked a lot—had it—had she?

“It’s… okay,” Crowley attempted.

Aziraphale laughed. It hurt to hear. She covered her face with her free hand. “It is,” she said, from behind it. She brought her hand back down, beside the other that gripped the glass in her lap. 

The tears in her eyes were holding the line against the perimeter of her lashes, not yet crossing. Crowley hadn’t seen her cry since The Flood. She looked ancient, and exhausted. Hopeful, and scared. 

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale whispered.

“What,” Crowley said. “Don’t be. You saw me in that bar.”

“I didn’t.”

“Wh—”

“I couldn’t see you or where you were.”

The short conversation they’d had in that establishment, where Crowley had gone to drink herself into numbness while the world ended around her, was rather a blur. Between the haze of alcohol, the painful and sudden repatching of a shattered heart, (plus the uncomfortable awareness of that being A Thing), and Crowley trying very very hard to follow the angel’s explanation-slash-instructions… she’d retained little else beyond Aziraphale being _wiggly._

“...oh,” Crowley said. “It was embarrassing. I was a couple of bottles in and had been crying on and off for most of the day and had generally given up on… yeah.”

“Oh.”

“I just didn’t really see the point.” She wanted to apologize, for not being better, but it’d be too overdramatic, too much on what was already a delicate situation. So she focused on the carpet, giving them both a few moments for Aziraphale to repress any judgment, to spare Crowley that.  
It had been cleared away by the time she lifted her head. The angel’s brow was furrowed in thought.

They drank in silence.

Eventually, Aziraphale set her empty glass over onto her desk. “I think I need sleep,” she said, standing. “You can stay, if you like.” An echo of Crowley’s words at the bus stop. “There’s the couch or... you can have one side of the bed.”

Crowley felt the blood drain from her face. She didn’t know how she looked but Aziraphale caught whatever her reaction was.

“I’m not—it’s not—”

“No. Yeah. Of course.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath and visibly steeled herself. “It doesn’t matter anymore. I like having you around.”

Crowley felt drunker than she actually was, which was drunk. “Oh.”

Aziraphale stared, her brows raised a bit but expression otherwise blank. Two seconds passed. Then, she moved again, rolling her eyes and turning to go up the stairs.

She'd miracled herself into pajamas by the time Crowley caught up with her (noteworthy in that the angel normally preferred to do things the human way) and was climbing into bed. Crowley had been up here before, but she’d forgotten the finer details: the specific hardbacks at the window ( _Small Gods_ , and the Second Quarto of _Hamlet_ among them), the forgotten mugs of tea and cocoa, how the room’s eastern window meant it filled with soft light in the mornings. A beat passed. Crowley raised a hand and snapped herself into her usual black silk pajamas.

She pulled back the covers on the other side—crawled beneath them. The sheets were soft and cool. Crowley was tired, too. She was exhausted.

Aziraphale made a small gesture, and the lights dimmed. She pulled the blankets more tightly around her, rolling onto her side to face Crowley.

“When’s the last time this happened?” Crowley whispered. She wasn’t sure if she meant Aziraphale sleeping, or them both doing so in a shared space.

“Well, there was that time we overindulged on the estate.” They’d dozed off a few feet apart from each other. Crowley had awoken to the sun streaming in and Aziraphale picking herself up off the carpet.

The angel wasn’t much for sleep. It happened occasionally after too much alcohol. Crowley’d seen her do it (or talk about it) a few times when she seemed to have been under a lot of stress for some time, usually dealing with work stuff until Heaven finally found something else to do. Then the angel would usually mention having slept a night or two. She’d gotten that from Crowley, who had spent many nights on the bookshop’s couch or, a few times, up here.

This wasn’t entirely new. But, it felt different. She wasn’t sure why yet.

But as they lay there in the dark, she realized that she felt safe. Maybe not… cosmically, but there was no fear of being found together to dismiss or need to plan an excuse for. And it wasn’t just convenience that had left them sharing a sleeping pallet or stretch of ground.

Aziraphale (who had fallen asleep within minutes) had voiced that she cared about Crowley, and that she wanted her around. Sooner than Crowley had expected, if she’d expected it. 

There would be panic and faltering steps around that in the coming days. 

Aziraphale had been incredibly brave this weekend. But she always was, when it really came down to it. Earth’s guardian. The strongest angel ever created.

(If Crowley dreamed that night, she didn’t remember it.)

She woke up slowly, comfortably. Aziraphale’s layers of blankets were heavy, warm-but-not-too-warm. She squirmed around beneath them—the urge to burrow flowing up from her hindbrain. There was heat from the sun on her face. She cracked a lid. Yeah. Ton of natural light. Too bad Aziraphale didn’t go in for plants (the complaining during the angel’s stint as a gardener had been prolific). 

No angel, not a surprise.

After about half an hour of going through apps on her phone, Crowley slowly made her way out of bed. She changed back into her normal clothes and went downstairs.

Aziraphale was at her desk, an empty plate that had once held a breakfast set to her side. She was leaning over one of the books she used for inventory.

“Angel.”

“Morning,” she said, not looking up. “It’s about 11:30.”

“How long have you been awake?”

“Since 6:00 or so. There’s coffee.” She pointed to the corner of her desk where a black mug sat. Steam curled slowly into the air. Crowley walked over, picked it up. She settled with her hip against the side of the desk, sufficiently out of Aziraphale’s way. The angel was wearing those spectacles.

“Has inventory commenced?”

Aziraphale nodded, briefly glancing up and then back down. “It has. Rather close to the last time, but needs must.”

The street was surprisingly busy for a Monday morning; a not-insubstantial amount of people were milling about—on their way to whatever they were on their way to.

“I guess I’m going to go back to my flat.”

She thought about suggesting dinner, but it was best not to crowd the angel. She didn’t know what Aziraphale wanted yet. Even at her most content, her most free, Aziraphale had always clung to her solitude and contemplation. And the unknown book situation was certainly a genuine point of stress. The focus on her current task wasn’t an act.

“Okay,” Aziraphale said. “Lunch tomorrow, possibly? Actually, dinner might be better.”

“I think that works for me.”

Aziraphale stopped and straightened to flash Crowley a genuine smile. Crowley felt herself return it.

It was a soft, tentative sort of happiness.

“See you later, angel.”

“See you tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my fondness and gratitude to [RainingPrince](https://www.archiveofourown.org/users/RainingPrince) for beta-ing this chapter. <3


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

**The night before last.**

* * *

Aziraphale watched her turn the key in the lock. Under normal circumstances, it was warded—but at this point, thanks to Ligur, it was just a regular deadbolt. Probably for the best. Crowley pushed it open.

They’d been avoiding any magic for the last few hours, both unsure of how much power’d be required to swap their forms. On the bus, it had occurred to Crowley what she'd be returning to at her flat: a puddle of holy water just past the antechamber. Earlier that day, she’d opted to avoid it altogether and phase through a wall on her way out.

They stepped inside. 

“Aziraphale. Can I ask you a favor?”

A voice, sanctimonious, came from over her right shoulder. “You know, asking people that when you haven’t said what the fa—”

Crowley turned. “You can get rid of holy water, right?”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. Crowley explained. There was no reaction to the hurried description of murdering a colleague, and when Crowley finished, she nodded. “Stay here.”

She walked into the room beyond, stepping over the threshold and out of sight. 

“Where is the thermos? Oh, it’s on the desk.”

Crowley heard her snap. 

“Can you come closer?”

Crowley edged up to the inner doorway. Aziraphale was just past it, crouched down and studying the dry floor. Crowley caught herself staring at her friend's face, priorities all out of sorts.

“It should be fine," the angel said. "Hold your hand over it?”

Crowley squatted down. She did. There was the fuzzy feeling of warmth, static, like the feeling of almost touching a computer or something—if that feeling also came with the sickening, uncomfortable suggestion that your constituent elements couldn’t co-exist alongside it. “Feels like consecrated ground.”

“Something like that.” Aziraphale pressed her hand flush against it. “I’ve removed every bit of the holy water. I put it back into the thermos. Alongside some of the moisture in the rock. My apologies to your flooring but better safe than sorry. I don’t like this being in your flat, though.”

“You can’t de-consecrate it or anything."

The gaze lifted from the floor. Eyes full of an unearthly light fixed on Crowley from less than a meter away. “No." Then the angel blinked, a clear shift in thought. "Can you… uh… touch a strand of hair to the ground? Hair follicle test.”

Crowley pulled one and let it touch where Ligur had dissolved into nothing. The hair remained intact... though it seemed less conditioned. Was that a split end? She reached out, terrified but trusting of the angel’s assessment, and let her nail graze the floor. Uncomfortable, but not concerningly so. They were going to be facing worse than this. She touched a finger to the stone and drew it back sharply when, sure enough, a holy _fuck off_ burned up through her skin.

“I can work with that.”

“I wouldn’t walk over the threshold to that room in bare feet anytime soon, but it should be fine otherwise.”

They both stood.

“Thank you.”

“Of course. I’m glad you had it.” There was a pause. “Is that what you—”

“Yeah.”

“Ah.”

Neither of them seemed to want to continue with that line of discussion. 

Crowley stepped into the room, now that it was safe. “C’mon. Let’s get drinks and we can figure this out.”

They settled onto Crowley’s magnificent couch. Aziraphale took off her coat and draped it over a chair.

They’d had two hours from Tadfield to talk through everything. Crowley’d had her suspicions to voice, and from there they had put together a plan. Sorted out metaphysical logistics. Openly conspired in the same row of seats.

They’d already delayed more than either was comfortable with. Their sides could come for them at any moment, and if they didn’t swap in time… but it had been too much of a risk to try on the bus, so they’d waited. Even stopping to deal with the holy water had been foolish. Aziraphale probably could have carried her or something.

“So we just take apart the human bits and switch them between us?” Aziraphale said, echoing their earlier discussion.

“I think so.”

It was only past-3, but it already felt like a sort of twilight.

“Crowley, if—”

“You don’t have to apologize to me,” Crowley said softly. “You’ve… we’ve never had to, right?”

Aziraphale looked away, mulling something over in that mind of hers. “You know I didn’t mean any of it.”

“Yeah.”

“You…” Aziraphale was quiet for a long time. “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”

Crowley didn’t really know what to say to that. The influx of emotion, something bigger than the skin she wore, that filled her like a dark, huge wave—eclipsing her thoughts even as it was unidentifiable past its enormity—wasn’t helpful either. So she said, offered, “Thanks. For saying that, and for the holy water. Two whole thank yous.” 

The angel made a face.

The switch was weird. A very unpleasantly no-thanks literal sensation of skin crawling. _Blugh._ The glimpse of Aziraphale without the layers of human was another thing she didn’t know what to do with. But, new body. 

Crowley had a new body.

She shook her hands out, feeling the solidness in them. She flexed her fingers. Strong. Very strong. Not surprising. Neat.

She looked over at the angel. 

So that's what her face looked like in the flesh—un-mirrored. Not bad, honestly. It was peering back at her with a level of concern that was all Aziraphale. 

"How do you feel?"

Crowley thought about it. "Shorter. More comfortable. Is that what you mean?"

Aziraphale reached up to the glasses and lowered them. She frowned over the lenses, blinking excessively. "I think I meant in the metaphysical sense, but it seems to have worked out."

They sat back.

“Well,” Aziraphale continued. “What should I expect?”

“Well, Hell’s other pe—” Crowley’s joke coming out in the angel’s voice made her have to pause. It was easier to get the words out, though. “No. Uh. Hell’s damp and crowded and smells terrible. So holy water. Probably somewhere showy. Like I said, they’ll want to make an example.”

“I don’t know how public Heaven will choose to make it.”

“How do you think they’ll… can you imagine if you’re down there and somebody, I dunno, _Michael_ just… is there with a vase.”

Back to the bus ride, talking through Agnes’s prophecy and their likely fates in a fluorescent and strangely-fitting setting. 

_“When do you think they’ll come for us?”_

_“Soon. I’m not sure.”_

_“Do you think we should go ahead and try the switch—”_

_“More variables than I’m comfortable with.”_

_“Quite.”_

_“We can at my place. ASAP.”_

_“ _... you’ll be playing with fire._ What does she mean by fire, do you think?”_

_“Well… so Heaven and Hell definitely have a… backchannel thing, right? Too many things pointing at that.”_

_The angel reacted with surprise—immediately followed by a flash of self-recrimination that transfigured into annoyance. She clenched her jaw, blinked once and straightened up in the bus’s terrible plastic seat, refocusing._

_Crowley continued, “So I think it’s just going to be holy water, for me. They’ll want to make an example. For what I did. A betrayal like that. Bound to be. And maybe… they get Hellfire, for you.”_

_Aziraphale nodded. “I think so. I would have assumed Falling was the obvious choice, assuming they still could, but, Agnes said fire and it does make the most sense, particularly with their apparent lines of communication.”_

It was strange: feeling the world get put back together around you. Ripples going past them, out from Tadfield, shifts in circumstance. Crowley had been periodically checking news articles, Twitter, etc, from her phone. It was all weird.

And it had sparked the question of just-how-far-reaching was Adam setting things to rights. Was there the possibility of the Bentley, the bookshop, still existing in Adam’s After?

“Could you check on it, for me?”’ Aziraphale asked.

“Yeah. I don’t know where my car would _be_.”

“We hope.” Hope as a thing you do.

“Hope is exhausting.”

“It is. Do you want to make me watch one of your films?”

“Ahhhh. I could.”

They watched The Birdcage with Nathan Lane and it reminded Crowley of seeing Angels in America during a long Saturday together earlier in the summer. Eight hours in a dark theater with breaks for a quick glass of champagne, and a long early supper. Netflix experience in the flesh.

It had been one of Crowley’s better recent memories, if a very weird series of themes to sit with when you were actively trying to save the world from a seemingly absent god and the Heaven and Hell She’d left.

The film finished. It was still dark out, but dawn would arrive soon. Crowley tried not to cling to every passing second—to not waste what was a potentially-finite quantity of time. She didn’t have that kind of focus, not without burning motorways or cracking airfields or Aziraphale existing in her vicinity—and they were going to be very separate to survive this.

But for now, she was with her friend and she’d taken a stand and they’d saved the world. Sort of. Whatever the day held was going to happen regardless of her utter inadequacy for endings.

“I hope this works,” the angel said.

“Me too."

They had a good plan, with prophetic support. Heaven and Hell weren’t competent. Neither were the two of them, evidently, but… it was a good plan. They stood a chance.

"More life,” Aziraphale whispered. The movie had evidently sent her thoughts to the play as well.

(Eight hours in, Prior spoke to the audience, _“The world only spins forward. We will be citizens. The time has come. Bye now. You are fabulous creatures, each and every one. And I bless you: More Life. The Great Work Begins.”_ )

"Angels in London," Crowley said.

“Hopefully just the one of us, from here on out.”

* * *

Crowley stood in her sunlit office.

She’d survived. They’d both survived.

The world would keep turning and her future was her own.

She walked through her rooms, glanced at her plants, the accumulated things from her life on Earth. She’d surrounded herself with treasures, but she’d never really taken a breath—or known how to consider this home. 

It wasn’t that it was temporary. That was a given, for an immortal. 

It’d been about Hell. 

She’d never been able to let go of the… well, it’d been a truth up until yesterday: the idea that Earth was simply a vacation. Flats, houses, they’d basically all been long-term hotel stays. And that had been fine. Better than any other demon got, not that any of them would have been so iconoclastic as to ever admit to a want like that. Heaven, neither had she, really. Though what part of that was the fitting-in and what was just her own repression?

To need—to want—a home was a weakness she wasn’t keen on acknowledging to her audience of... her. It was a risk.

But.

It was a much smaller risk than she’d taken yesterday. Everything was now, wasn’t it?

Shit. That was exhilarating.

She couldn’t go an hour without something reminding her that she was free. Crowley was giddy with the idea, the reality, of it.

What would she do with her life?

Probably a lot.

This flat had been there for her for a long time. But, Crowley loved change. And part of the floor was funny now.

It was time to move.

Maybe she could find something closer to the angel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley misunderstood what a [warded lock](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Warded_lock) is.
> 
> When they were watching _The Birdcage_ and thinking about _Angels in America_ , at one point Aziraphale laughed, imagining Agnes Nutter yelling "Fuck you! I'm a prophet!" at the Witchfinders who would burn her.
> 
> Thanks to [RainingPrince](https://www.archiveofourown.org/users/RainingPrince) for beta reading this chapter. <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Notes at the top this time. 
> 
> [anthony_crowley's](https://www.archiveofourown.org/users/anthony_crowley) incredible art is at the end of this chapter. AAAAAAAH. So good.
> 
>   
> Cheers to [RainingPrince](https://www.archiveofourown.org/users/RainingPrince) for beta. Also, just a note: In book Good Omens, Crowley lives in Mayfair. TV Crowley is in Westminster, though in this fic, she decides Mayfair is a place she'd like to be <3

* * *

**Later, in September**

* * *

Aziraphale had read enough philosophy to recognize her own existential crisis.

Crowley was occupied with moving flats. They'd still been seeing each other every few days—meals and some shows, but she was busy.

Thank… someone. Aziraphale had been grateful for the time alone to fall apart on a new and embarrassing level of panic, guilt and… oh, Crowley had mentioned a newer term, what was it… to be burned out? Which was regrettable phrasing, considering recent circumstances.

All to say, well, she hadn’t exactly been doing well.

After finishing her week of inventory (confirming no books gone and pleased to identify some valuable if incongruous additions), she’d reopened. That had been fine. She’d managed to stick with her hours, as much as she ever did.

But, she’d been reading Sartre and Milton and Camus. And crying. Historically, that was a centennial sort of thing. Now it happened more nights than it didn’t. And in the afternoons. Sometimes mornings. Anytime, really.

She knew it was grief. Yes, she’d saved the world and was finally free to do… what she wanted. But, she’d lost what she’d served—what had been her presumed purpose through her entire existence.

She’d finally seen Heaven for what it was, but what she was supposed to do without it? After what she’d done for it, what she had refrained from doing... for it… and then, to finally realize. At the end of all things.

She was still coming to terms with that, and she didn’t have any measure to determine how long it would take. She admired the humans—the way they adapted. Aziraphale knew that capacity extended to God’s first children.

But, she couldn’t parse an equivalency of experience from their mortal lives. She couldn’t look to humankind when she wanted to plan her own recovery.

Maybe that was for the best; she’d certainly have said as much to anyone else. But, not to herself.

Still, the world would keep turning. Days and weeks and years. Time would pass. There would be more joy, more life.

Also, she was afraid.

The archangels had liked to say, _Be not afraid._ Honestly, it was terrible advice. Aziraphale’s secret, small bit of judgment towards the saying had once thrilled her: something known only by herself and a God who hadn’t seemed to mind very much. Of course, it was possible She hadn’t been listening.

Aziraphale didn’t know. And she wasn’t sure how she felt about Her yet.

She wasn’t angry with Her. She was with Heaven—but even that wasn’t a significant portion of her thoughts. Heaven had always been what Heaven was, Aziraphale simply hadn’t accepted the evidence—hadn’t seen it, had been in denial for… nearly her whole life.

Maybe their old sides would figure out their trick. She’d expressed those worries to Crowley, who had understood and known the right things to say. Aziraphale believed her, trusted her. Her friend ( _her friend_ ) wouldn’t lie to her in the name of comfort.

Over the past few weeks, here and there, they’d discussed contingencies, come up with plans for discorporation, discovery, etc. Odds were in their favor, and were better than they’d ever been. And here, she _could_ look to the humans, who lived every day facing their own mortality. It was something Aziraphale could learn from. And that brought her joy: to learn from humanity.

The shop was closed for the afternoon, as she was planning to visit Crowley at her new flat. She was looking forward to it, curious to see what Crowley had done with the place. Mayfair was an improvement on Westminster. Less tourists. Better restaurants. Closer.

Aziraphale wondered if the interior would be as dark as the old place. Crowley had left her behind in the flat the morning of their switch. Aziraphale hadn’t snooped, though she’d been tempted, but she _had_ explored—examined what was out in the open, contemplated Crowley’s life over the centuries in this space.

Unlike Aziraphale’s home, the decoration was minimalistic, elegant. Exactly enough furniture to make the rooms all seem furnished.

There were a few art pieces, some statues, a painting from Leonardo—that was surprising.

She’d stood in front of the statue of the wrestling angels for a long time. It really… It… Aziraphale had questions. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever have it in her to ask.

And _oh_ the plants. So beautiful. So concerningly stressed. _Oh, Crowley._

It took around 15 minutes to walk to Mayfair. Summer was slowly making its way out of London. It was a beautiful, softly cloudy day.

Crowley had once again favored a quiet street. She’d said she’d chosen the penthouse apartment, which had a separate entrance to the left of the building’s main doors. Aziraphale rang the bell.

Crowley’s voice came through the intercom. “Yeah.”

“It’s me.”

The door swung open, revealing a small hallway that led to an elevator. Inside, its whole panel held two buttons: L & PH. Aziraphale pressed PH.

The metal doors parted to another, shorter hallway. The walls were a light stone; at the end was a large black door.

Aziraphale had a few seconds on approach to notice the snake doorbell, before the door swung inward and Crowley appeared. No sunglasses. She was wearing an apron.

“Hi, angel.”

“Hello.”

Crowley stepped back, opening the door wider for Aziraphale to walk through.

It was lighter than her old place.

The walls were (at Aziraphale’s best guess) some sort of smooth concrete painted white—but not a stark white. It was a bit… was this called a loft space? The ceilings were very high. The windows were huge, like Crowey’s previous flat, and took up most of the outer walls.

“Oh, this is lovely,” Aziraphale said.

“I’ll give you a tour.”

It wasn’t an open plan space. Was that some part of Crowey’s serpentine constitution? A preference for hides—if in the form of huge well-appointed luxury accommodations.

All of the furniture was new: blackened wood and metal and stone. There were two bedrooms, two bathrooms (how often did Crowley do anything in a bathroom?), a room that didn’t have much of anything in it other than mirrors and some benches. There was a dining room connected to a huge kitchen right off of the space she had initially entered into when Crowley had greeted her.

That first room seemed to function as a den and office—it was also the largest in the flat, though they were all quite spacious. The floorplan decidedly defied the actual measurements of the building, maybe twice-over.

The art was all still the same, placed in new settings. In a hallway, Aziraphale hesitated in front of the stone eagle. “Crowley.”

“Yeah?” Crowley was a few paces ahead. She turned and flounced back over.

“Have I seen this before? Other than your previous flat, that is.”

Crowley didn’t respond for a moment. Aziraphale looked back from the statue again. Without the glasses, she could see Crowley thinking—eyes narrowed and lips slightly pursed.

“You would have. Though I’m surprised you recognized it. It’s from the church, in 1941.”

Whatever Aziraphale had expected as an answer, it hadn’t been that. She didn’t always understand Crowley’s more opaque sentimentality for physical objects, which (evidently) tended to manifest at hard-to-predict moments.

That night was immense in Aziraphale’s memory. Six millennia of slow realization clicking into place with a satchel of books. It eclipsed the finer set details.

“Oh,” she managed.

“Come on, I’ll show you the outside.”

Why had Crowley taken it?

Also, that meant she’d gone back for it, after the lift home. She couldn’t know what that night meant for Aziraphale. Nonetheless, it had been a huge accomplishment for Crowley—though probably not in a way Hell would have acknowledged.

She’d told Aziraphale in that first ride in the Bentley about how she’d diverted the planes. She’d used powers to change their course, but finding out the plans, determining which of the Luftwaffe she’d needed to influence, had required a substantial amount of detective work and careful timing to pull off.

It was where Crowley flourished. It was the same set of interests that made her love spy movies. And perhaps their reconciliation had also had some influence in her choice to go back for the statue—but even if that was a factor, whether Crowley would have actually realized it was questionable.

They walked back to the original room and over to a set of double doors that opened out onto a rooftop patio. There was a greenhouse, at the end of it.

“You really do treat the laws of physics as a suggestion,” Aziraphale said.

“I didn’t spend however-long-I-did learning them inside and out for Heaven, not to take full advantage of them now.”

Crowley led her to the greenhouse.

Inside, it was spectacular. Crowley was a master gardener and her expertise had created a space which would have made the staff at Kew Gardens pull out notepads—though, this was maybe a fourth of the size of their Victorian glasshouse, and considerably more modern.

Unfortunately, there were still waves of stress coming from all of the plant life—it would have made Aziraphale not want to linger if they weren’t mid-tour. But, it was muted. That seemed good. Maybe it was the increase in space and sun.

Aziraphale didn’t understand why Crowley took that approach with her gardening in the first place, so she couldn’t draw the conclusion that it was, perhaps, a result of more happiness on her friend’s part—even if that’s what she might hope.

There were so many plants, a few huge trees, but there was also space, a table and chairs. Aziraphale recognized some of the plants, but not all—or even most, so she asked.

“What kind of rose is this?”

“Black Bacarra.”

“Ah.”

Crowley turned and leaned against a table. Aziraphale’s breath caught.

She was framed by greenery, like a portrait. The brilliant coppers and reds and oranges of her hair stood out in bright contrast. In the filtered sunlight, her eyes were gold. She was relaxed, dressed her most casual, perfectly in her element.

“Oh, good lord.”

Crowley seemed a bit surprised, but then her face shifted into a huge grin. She glanced around herself, as if she was following Aziraphale’s gaze, and then straightened back up.

“You’ve created a lovely home,” Aziraphale said. Her face felt warm.

Crowley looked around again, this time at what she’d built, still smiling. “I think so.”


End file.
